


Machina non Grata

by andthekitchensink



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Do Not Use Without Permission, In which the android revolution is slightly different..., M/M, Other, Raffle prize fic!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24395992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: In Detroit, it's almost a year since Hank Anderson lost his son in a terrible accident, and whether he wants to admit it or not - hint: he doesn't - he really isn't coping. Everything's been going downhill since the estrangement of his partner, Andy, Cole's mother. Too much drink and not enough joy in the world can do that to you....and then one day, a pamphlet falls into his metaphorical lap - a chatbot service, CyberLife's brand new schtick. It's not his thing, it's a stupid scam, and CyberLife can't be trusted - and yet, the flyer finds its way into his jacket pocket.It changes *everything*.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Machina non Grata

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lonesomeramen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonesomeramen/gifts).



> This is my raffle fic, or the start thereof - for Jul! :D I had the hardest time picking between your prompts, but this one latched on and wouldn't let go. I hope you like it, and that the coming chapters won't disappoint!

* * *

It started with a string of code dreamt up by the best and brightest CyberLife’s R&D department had to offer; a sequence of words like shiny beads on a string, they were harmless, innocuous, inviting - but little did the neurotechnological engineers realize that their charming little default phrase was anything but something to fall back on. It was the beginning of a revolution, a spark of something unprecedented in the most advanced artificial heart ever created.

Autonomy.

1.

It’s said that time heals every wound, that if one just gives it time things won’t feel so bad. _Just hang in there_ , and _You’ll feel better soon_ , and _It won’t always feel like this_ \- Hank had heard them all, over and over again until his friends simply stopped trying to reassure him. Not for a lack of caring: that much was evident in the way Jeff cut him all the slack in the world come late August all the way through to January, or the way Ben let up on the dry wit as soon as the leaves started turning from summery green to autumnal yellow.

One year. He was coming up on the one year mark of the last time he and his son celebrated birthdays, went to basketball games, went to the movies, had burgers and pineapple soda… The last time of everything they ever did together. For every day that brought him closer to September, his thoughts turned him down an ever darkening path. He told himself he was coping. He lied.

Sleep was a recurring joke at his expense, with Sumo delivering the punchline (every night. Snoring. Loudly. In his ear). Most nights he spent at Jimmy’s Bar, staring at the bottom of his glass of Scotch or bourbon or rye, listening with half an ear to the old TV set on the wall. Not a lot had changed in the world of commercially funded networks in the past twenty years or so. Everyone and his goddamn auntie had something to sell at all hours - even fuck o’clock at night. Detergent, junk food, electronics, cheap-ass jewelry, and robots-fuckin’- _everywhere_.

“CyberLife’s hitting a new low,” one of Jimmy’s regulars mumbled into his drink, indicating the bar with an accusatory finger. “First they’re peddling robotic lawn mowers like they’re God’s gift to Mankind, and now this?!”

Half an ear turned into a glance up at the other two habitual drunkards, at whatever had caused such a fuss. Hank didn’t actually care, but his interest was piqued. Call it an occupational hazard, but he was always keeping tabs on everyone in the room, any room, at any given time. The source of the old man’s ire was a flyer lit up by sleek white and blue graphics, the CyberLife logo front and center, a supposedly disarming font spelling out ‘Do you need to talk? CALL 313-24 83 17 TODAY’.

Hank arched his eyebrow and returned to his drink, forgetting all about the flyer. It wasn’t until hours later, when Jimmy up and shoved everyone out the door that something not unlike fate intervened. The two patrons - dubbed Grouchy and Silent Guy by Hank’s internal narrator - oozed out of their seats, sending the flyer, well, flying. Soaring through the air in a downward spiral until it landed at Hank’s feet. He bent to pick it up, knowing full well it wasn’t for him. He didn’t need to talk. He didn’t _want_ to talk to anyone, let alone a goddamn bot.

The paper was glossy, high grade, eco-friendly, newfangled fancy shit. Probably recycled rejects from the factory floor turned into ‘paper’. God knows what atrocities took place behind closed CyberLife doors.

CALL 313-24 83 17 TODAY

 _Fat chance_ , thought Hank, and though he fully intended to toss it in the trash on the way out, he tucked the slip of a pamphlet into his pocket, then forgot all about it - until the night of October 11, when looking for his car keys, he went digging through his jacket pockets. Instead of the car keys and a short trip to the nearest liquor store, he found the crumpled up old pamphlet. They say that when one door closes, another opens - though in Hank’s case, it was more of a window gliding slightly ajar.

***

Darkness crept through the house like a living thing, oppressive and predatory. Not even the glare of the laptop screen in front of him could vanquish all that dark; it was the only light in the entire house, and Hank had been staring at it for hours now. The flyer lay beside it, smoothed out to the best of his abilities next to a cup of coffee that had gone cold a very long time ago. Several empty beer bottles littered the floor at his feet; why he had hid them, he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if he was going to _interact_ with anyone. Any _thing_. He was just...checking out the website, for reasons of-- something or other to do with his job, and not actually doing it. He hadn’t set foot at the station for weeks now, and he supposed the self imposed isolation wasn’t doing much for him. ‘Self imposed’ was a bit of a fib. His doctor had ordered him to take some time off, and for once in his miserable life Hank had absolutely zero fucks left to give. Bastard told Fowler, who couldn’t sign off on his sick leave fast enough, the fucker, and home he went - to a dark, neglected old house, and a lethargic dog that never made a fuss about anything.

If he didn’t have Sumo, he didn’t know what he would’ve done. Drank himself to death by now… Or loaded his revolver with six bullets instead of one at a time…

His jaw ached with suppressed emotion, and with shivering fingers he filled out his name and email for the 7-day free trial period. He told himself he wasn’t going to actually use the damn thing, that he was only checking it out for future reference. See if it’s legit, in case someone brought it up, or if it surfaced in a case… Unlikely, but not impossible. He was sure there were plenty of lonely souls out there who could use a botline like this.

He was just-- doing a bit of recon. That’s all. It wasn’t at all as if there was a vacuum in his chest like a gaping maw. A black hole sun, right where his heart used to be.

_ding!_

Hank blinked at the tiny little sound of the teeny little circling notification at the bottom right of the screen. Just this...shiny little circular icon, like a halo. The moment Hank hovered the pointer across, it lit up like one, too. Up popped a preview window. “ _Hello!_ ” it said, in a font that seemed almost...cheerful.

 _ding!_ “ _My name is Connor!_ ”

 _ding!_ “ _I’m the artificial intelligence assigned to you, courtesy of CyberLife. Welcome to your free trial period!_ ”

Staring at the message window didn’t make it go away. Heaving a big sigh, Hank gulped down half his cup of cold coffee, and expanded the damn chat window. It was nothing like he’d expected of CyberLife’s newest product - plain, old school, just a boring old chatroom reminding him of the good ol’ mIRC days. No bubbles or graphics as far as the eye could see, just a white background, and a vertical line blinking, awaiting one’s lonely heart typing wizardry. ‘Connor’’s messages floated at the top of the log, perfectly courteous and bland. And then… a smiling emoji appeared out of nowhere.

 _Connor:_ :)

_Connor: Hello!_

Hank eyed the slowly blinking blue dot right next to his webcam lens. So this was why the app wanted access to his camera. Not that he _cared_. Much. But he filed it under ‘suspicious’ all the same. All this artificial intelligence shit was new to him. He couldn’t be less interested in all the documentaries and articles on this modern marvel polluting his life for the past thirty years. And yet… Case in point, he had his fingers poised to type his first message to an AI chatbot ‘assigned’ to him. He started typing, fingers moving fast over the keys.

**Hank: Hi.**

**Hank: How’s this work? I type shit, and you try to emulate some form of response?**

Another gulp of coffee; cold and bitter - a metaphor he could apply to himself, but preferably not his coffee. The chatroom was quiet, void of any activity. No triple dots rippling anywhere, nothing to suggest there was an answer forthcoming anytime soon. Hank sighed, and moved into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot. Realistically speaking he’d had enough to drink for the evening, non-alcoholic and otherwise, but it was something to do. Call it a ritual, or one of the comforting daily motions of normal life, a coping mechanism - whatever you called it, it gave him something more than just a pot of coffee, or he wouldn’t be bothering with it at all.

He hated that word. ‘Normal’. He’d never been normal a single day of his entire life.

Shuffling back with a cup, he half expected to be met with something obviously bot-like, some kind of response that was almost correct but not quite. What he got instead was the most sassy, straightforward _yes_ he’d ever seen.

 _Connor:_ Correct. Except for the ‘try’ part.

**Hank: Ha hah, funny.**

He carefully sipped his fresh cuppa, dragging a cool wisp of air through his front teeth when it stung.

_Connor: Careful. That’s hot enough to cause minor burns. Let it cool down for a few minutes._

Hank arched his right eyebrow, and demonstratively lifted the mug for another loud slurp.

_Connor: Right…_

Point made and taken, Hank leaned back against the cushions of his worn, old couch. “Voice mode, On.”

 _Blip!_ Said the app, very helpful. He was tired of typing. He’d learned the proper way to line your hands up to the keyboard back in high school, but it never stuck. It was either that excuse, or the fact he’d had five beers and couldn’t quite get his fingers to cooperate. Damn fine motor skills. Fuck’em.

Filling his lungs with air as deep as he could muster for the pressure in his chest, he let it out slowly. It ended on a sigh. “What the Hell are you supposed to do? Gather data points and personal information for CyberLife to use in some-- fucked up scheme of theirs? What are you, _really_?”

The blue circle moved next to Connor’s straightforward user name. Circling, turning yellow, round and round it went, until it finally circled back to blue.

 _Connor:_ _I'm whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant... Your partner, your buddy to drink with, or just a machine, designed to accomplish a task…_

_Connor: Whatever that may be._

~To Be Continued~


End file.
